RESURRECTION DAY

Mr. Everybody-nobody: a note, a scribe, a circle
in your inbox, please rectify, subscribe,
no mollify your superior immediately.
Something happened last night, between the ball game
and the tenth commercial. A shudder on the floor;
a flutter at the window. Was that a whisper,
a shadowed light, a mirror, some kind of voice?
Oops, tea break: why not a coffee, a nut muffin?
Break out!

Down the bleak hall, down the elevator,
down the stairs, down the dimple of dark,
to the common byways, to the runnels
of humanity, to closed faces, to blank eyes.
There is a hint of black fur growing out his sleeves,
a glint of moon in his prowling eyes.
Hey, look out! A California skate boarder
weaves by. “Look out, you beautiful fool!”
What is this humming in the man’s chest?
A growl, a humpback song, the roar of a bull elephant seal?
He turns into the coffee shop: ears sprouting leaves.
“Next! Number 63. That you? What will it be?”
“I’ll have a mackerel, a side plate of krill
and a bucket of dirt for my feet.”
Who said that?
Not me!

“That will be $8.92.”
Put it on this,” he says,
and pulls out a credit card that suddenly shines
as bright as the sun.
Everybody’s eyes glitter.
Everybody’s heart melts open.

Blake Steele